Scarborough Fair (26 page)

Dale kept moving. From one huddle of men to another, always for'ard. A French marine sat with his back to the bulwarks, loading paper cartridges from a powder horn that his comrades snatched as soon as they were full. He paused in his work, turning his smoke-blackened face upwards when Dale halted beside him. That was when the lieutenant saw the marine had been blinded, but had stayed at his post to load for his friends. Dale smiled then bent to pat the marine's arm.

“
Bon, bon, le courage
.” He didn't know whether it was the correct French or not, but it was near enough. He gulped down smoky air into his lungs for the last dash. Ready, he sprinted for the foc'sle, scrambling up the remains of a shattered ladder. With
Bonhomme
Richard
and
Serapis
shackled together, facing opposite directions,
Richard
's bows were hard against the Englishman's quarterdeck. Captain Pearson's marine bodyguard was laying down a murderous crossfire with their muskets. Hunched on
Richard
's foc'sle top was group of sailors who had taken refuge when the main weather deck battery had been decimated. A petty officer had organized the men. Having retrieved a few muskets and pistols, they were giving as good as they got.

Dale fell panting to the deck. The petty officer turned to offer the semblance of a smile when he recognized the lieutenant. He pointed aft into the smoke from where they could hear cheering.

“That be
Alliance
, sir? We got the word.”

Dale nodded, gulping air.
Alliance
was the reason he had come for'ard. It was impossible to see their own ship's bows from the quarterdeck because of the smoke-heavy night. The commodore had sent him up to make a head count and to watch
Alliance
after she crossed their stern and moved up the port side. She should then swing around their bows and rake the Englishman's stern. When that happened, Dale was to lead a boarding party to capture
Serapis
's quarterdeck and her principal officers while they were still stunned.

“How many men have you?”

The petty officer looked about, estimating recent losses. He made face and shrugged. “Twenty, maybe thirty. Hard to tell. And there ain't enough muskets for all.”

The lieutenant scanned their meager equipment. Discounting the few firearms, they had pikes and cutlasses for combat hand to hand. Besides, it didn't matter what they had, even only belaying pins, they would have to make do. He opened his mouth to issue the boarding orders…

***

Captain Pierre Landais stood on
Alliance
's quarterdeck as she forged through the darkness. Ahead lay the two struggling men-o'-war, locked together stem to stern in a deadly embrace. Multiple fires lit the sky as they pounded each other to pieces, reflections between the palls of gun smoke showing a clutter of wreckage floating around both battered hulls. Below him, Landais's own main deck was manned in textbook fashion, each man standing to his post, ready for action. The marine drummers beat a steady roll, staring blindly ahead. Wisps of smoke trailed from slow matches in the cannoneers' hands, awaiting only the order to open fire.

Pierre Landais wore a wolf's head grin. His eyes glinted as he stared fascinated at the close-fought duel between warships. He reveled in each explosion, each wail of pain that pierced the night. So, it looked like the cocksure American commodore had met his match after all. It served him right after giving out orders as though instructing little boys. It should have been him, Pierre Landais, who was commodore of the squadron anyway, not the Scots-American upstart. Oh yes, he knew all about him; how he had only got his ship and then the squadron by keeping Madame Therese de Chaumont's bed warm, and no doubt by keeping that patch of fur between her legs warm too. He had seen Jones at the
Comedie
in
Paris
, strutting like a peacock with her on his arm, all the stupid, thickheaded women making doe eyes at him in his fine uniform. All of them had been hot for him, the silly bitches.

HMS
Serapis
released a vicious broadside that sent timber and rigging spewing from
Bonhomme
Richard
into the littered sea. Landais tittered, knuckles drawn into fists of delight. M'sieur Paul Jones was getting all he deserved, and there would be more. This would repay him for always keeping the best prizes for himself, always ordering
Alliance
where the fighting would be the least rewarding. He had promised the American that on the day he was cornered like a rat and held out his hand for help, then he, Pierre Landais would spit on him.

This was that day.

The Frenchman laughed, throwing his head back. The outburst startled his sailing master who was standing halfway down the companion, holding on to the shrouds as he watched the battle. The master twisted, balancing his weight on the line as he looked back. Landais choked off his guffaw, staring down, bright eyed.

“Take her closer. Cross on the port beam.”

“Aye aye, sir. Are we going to help?”

“Help?” Landais laughed bitterly. “Oh yes, we're going to help.”

The master began to shout a string of orders.
Alliance
heeled as the wind caught her abeam when the helm went over. She responded with the grace of a gypsy dancer, sidestepping and tiptoeing over the wave tops. As they closed,
Bonhomme Richard
's predicament was all the more obvious. Even Landais wondered what was keeping her afloat. There was little doubt she was lost, while the English man-o'-war looked no better. For all he knew the commodore could be already dead. Sharpshooters always tried to pick off the officers first. A ship's crew without leadership was merely a rabble without direction or purpose. The American dead or not, it gave him an idea.

If he sailed in close he could rake the commodore's ship and so speed her sinking. It would then be a simple matter to make the crippled
Serapis
surrender, and he, Pierre Landais, would take the credit. Of course he would modestly acknowledge Paul Jones had engaged
Serapis
first. But it would also be known the American had failed where the Frenchman had triumphed.

Should the maneuver fail and both
Bonhomme Richard
and Paul Jones survive, he could always claim English turncoats in
Alliance
's crew had been angry at the mauling of HMS
Serapis
and had decided to switch allegiance again, mutinying then attacking
Bonhomme Richard
. Either that or a sudden switch in the wind at a crucial moment had caused a broadside to strike the wrong vessel. No, perhaps the first story was better. It could be further embellished that he had quelled the mutiny among his crew with a few sharp and decisive countermoves, and when again in control of his frigate he had taken the English warship.

The more he thought about it, the more plausible it sounded.

***

A broadside crashed out, one cannon after another, firing as they came to bear. Dale's mouth hung open as he stared aft. Horror gripped his bowels as a cannonball screamed out of the darkness. It smashed into the foc'sle immediately below his little band of survivors. White wood spears torn from the timberwork cartwheeled upwards. A man screamed. Dale swiveled involuntarily. A sailor was picked up and thrown ten feet then skewered to the deck through his stomach. His voice rang high and pure before disintegrating into a burble as blood flooded his mouth.

“My God,” Dale said in disbelief, rubbing a grubby hand across his eyes. “
Alliance
is raking us. Our own ship is trying to sink us!”

The petty officer was muttering. “He's a bloody maniac, that damned Frenchie. Or else he's bloody blind. You couldn't mistake us for t'other. Christ,
Richard
's black as night and yon
Serapis
has got yellow topsides.”

As the other men shook fists and cursed, Lt. Dale turned his back in order to watch the seaward quarter.
Alliance
loomed out of the darkness, swinging to starboard, so close he could see expressions clearly on faces lit by battle lanterns. They were reloading as she crabbed to cross their bows. She was going to rake them again! Dale cupped a hand to his mouth. “Ahoy
Alliance
! Lay on board the enemy!”

The seamen joined in. “Don't fire!” They even heard a boy's voice call from the mast-top: “I beg you not to sink us!”

They fell silent as
Alliance
's battery was run out again. There could be no doubt. It was deliberate. The petty officer shook his head, whispering. “God help us, and the Devil damn his soul for all eternity.” Then they saw the flashes, long tongues of orange licking from the guns. One, two, three, they rippled along the frigate's flank, seven, eight, nine. Huge chunks of chain whirled over their heads as the noise of the detonations reached out over the
North Sea
. Grapeshot pounded the hull, punching holes the size of sovereigns.

Not one gun was fired in reply to the treachery.
Richard
's decks were a shambles of burst and useless cannon from
Serapis
's continuous broadsides at point-blank range, the shattered planking strewn with the dead and the dying.

On the foc'sle Lt. Dale came up onto his knees for a better view.
Alliance
, untouched, was sailing calmly onward as though a player in some bizarre game. How much more could
Bonhomme Richard
take? Surely to God, they must be sinking now, he thought. There could be nothing left keeping her afloat but dreams, and there were precious few of those left. He looked over his shoulder at the sailors still crouched by the rail. Some had recovered and were shooting their muskets. Others were stunned, plumbing new depths of despair now their hope of aid was dashed.

“Keep your men here, and keep them fighting,” Dale ordered. When the petty officer ignored him, he put a hand on his shoulder. The man keeled over to sprawl on the deck. Dale rolled him over. Dead. Another one gone. Suddenly, he was exhausted. He was sick of it. A shadow crossed his face.

“Sir? Sir?” A junior lieutenant knelt to shake his arm. “Sir? The commodore wants to see you aft.”

Dale's gaze was bankrupt. Slowly, he forced his eyes to refocus and his breath rushed out in a long hiss. “Very well. Take command here. Keep them busy. Preferably keep them fighting.”

***

The prisoners crouched helplessly in the brig below the main gun deck, shackled together in rows of misery. The air was fogged with gun smoke, the stench of burnt black powder in their nostrils. Those not deafened by the bursting eighteen-pounders watched the roof timbers fearfully as salvo chased salvo from the English guns, ripping through the ship. Between the stutters of cannon were always the sharp cracks of musket fire and deeper detonations from grenades. Here and there they heard a burst of cheering or a wail of agony.

Even the normally talkative Billy had fallen quiet. His hopes of freedom had sapped away during the long hours of the battle. Reflexes dulled, his chin rested on his arms. He no longer darted glances upward when explosions occurred close by. His thoughts were full of his lost sloop
Speedwell
. Without her he had nothing, not even the means to make a living. The other two
Whitby
men were silent too, both Robin and Ian drained by tension to the point where nothing could be a surprise. Whatever happened was going to happen whether they wanted it to or not.

Jackie Rudd sat with his head back against the hull, chained wrists hanging between his knees so that with each vibration the links clattered. He could not believe his life had veered course so dramatically within the space of two or three days. This time last week he had been at home in Scarborough with nothing more to worry about than having ample bait for the next day's fishing and enough bright copper pennies to fill his mug with ale at the King Richard. Then had come the cart journey over the moors to see his dying uncle.

Whitby
would always conjure wonderful memories now, the place where his body had fully woken. The pressure of Dorry Aim's thighs against him, and her breasts, warm and soft in his hand. Her lips pliant under his. The promise of fulfillment she had made where Rose always held him at arm's length. The smell of Dorry. The feel of her. He had only just rattled the gates, the mysteries ready to unfold when he had been called away, the taunting of the Whitby men ringing in his ears while they fished away the night. And now this, chained like an animal in filth.

His anger had no release. Frustration drew a tight cage about his lungs, hands flexing until his wrists were sore from the chafing of iron manacles. If only he knew what was happening above. The most frightening thing about cannon fire was ignorance. He would have given anything to know. Beside him, a sailor was bowed forward, gray streaked hair hanging over hands pressed together. Jackie could hear the man's confession as he prepared for his entry to the next world. Jackie grimaced. That was the furthest thing from his mind. He was concerned with the here and now, not tomorrow. Fire and brimstone meant nothing. He had only just begun and there was so much living to do. No, he was not going to die here, not if he could help it.